


Serendipity

by FaiaSakura



Series: The Best We Can Bee [1]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Betsy ends up as Andrew's foster parent, Gen, I yeeted Andrew out of the Spear household before anything could happen, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, for an OFC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 10:41:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20290126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaiaSakura/pseuds/FaiaSakura
Summary: Serendipity (noun): finding something good without looking for it.Betsy smiles at him, and Andrew wants to believe it’s genuine, believe she cares about him. It too hard to, when every person he’s ever let in has disappointed him. He wants to believe, but he can’t.Andrew Minyard believes he's exhausted all his chances when he ends up in Betsy Dobson's foster care.





	Serendipity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Talls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talls/gifts).

> Happy summer, Talls! I hope you enjoy this. It's angstier than I intended but hopefully still follows your prompt. 
> 
> Betaed by Nikotheamazingspoonklepto

  
[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/183587901@N03/48562691846/in/dateposted-public/)  


The illusion—that Andrew could have a normal life, with a normal family that cares for him—breaks the moment Cass’s son returns for the summer. His name is Drake and he looks at Andrew with hunger in his eyes and his touches linger and he smiles just a smidge to nice and, and, and.

And most people would tell Andrew it’s all in his head, would accuse him of being jealous that he no longer has Cass’s undivided attention. But most people are selfish and unobservant and stupid and don’t really care about the children they’re responsible for.

Andrew has lived his whole life in the system. He knows it is a fool’s dream to hope that someone who has made it into his preteens, like him, could possibly get adopted. Parents wanted cute little babies to dote on and shape up in their own image—not children as grown as he already is.

He also knows enough of the other kids in the system. Kids might not talk to officers or foster care workers or teachers, but they talk to each other. Andrew also knows that for all of Cass’s kindness, she has a high turnover rate. He knows that almost a year ago, also in the summer, a girl in her care had been hit by a car.

_A tragic accident,_ the adults said. _She was running after her ball and didn’t look at the traffic. It happens. _Sentimental platitudes said to comfort one another, to assuage guilt and responsibility.

_She did it on purpose_, the kids said. _Some bad shit went down. She was different, in the last month, scared of something or someone. It happens. _Callous indifference in the face of harsh realities, where survival was everything and some simply didn’t make it.

He didn’t know the girl, never met her, but he remembers. There was a flyer up at the Department of Child Services announcing her memorial reception. He didn’t go, had no reason to, but he remembers the photo they used, because he remembers everything. How pretty she was, with a gap-toothed smile and little freckles dusting her face, with bright blue eyes and long blonde hair. A cute child, easily adoptable.

Cass, her husband, and her son all have plain brown hair and brown eyes. Andrew, and little dead Marcy, and all the previous foster children in Cass’s household have been fair children with blonde hair and pale eyes. Most foster kids in the system aren’t even white—plenty are, but statistically, Cass should have gotten someone who looked different than Andrew and Marcy.

Marcy died at the end of summer after some bad shit went down. Drake is at some military college for most of the year and only home for the summers.

It doesn’t add up to a pretty picture.

Little girls didn’t kill themselves for no reason, and Andrew isn’t interested in sticking around to experience said reason.

Cass’s kindness is ephemeral compared to the horrors Andrew has experienced. He thought this might be his lucky chance, but luck has never been with him. Foster kids are survivors and his instincts scream at him to leave.

Leave behind the candy store library trips, playing in the park and going to museums. Better off at a house that skimps on food and clothing, better to be safe and starving than well-fed and bloodied-up.

Andrew sneaks use of the phone and calls his caseworker, Mrs. Sandoval, a useless woman who hems and haws and promises nothing but empty platitudes. Then he calls that officer Higgins, who had given Andrew his card once. Andrew doesn’t have the card but has his number memorized. He threatens to run away and commit crimes and all sorts of things, until Higgins and Sandoval take him away from the Spears and put him with the Johnsons.

The Johnsons do the bare minimum to take care of their multiple foster children and pocket the money they’re supposed to use. Andrew knows this going in, accepting that nothing is better than something bad.

But he’s only there for two weeks.

“I’ve arranged this especially for you,” Officer Higgins tells him one night as he helps retrieve Andrew with Mrs. Sandoval and brings him elsewhere. Some lady the officer knew growing up, who wants to be close to her family for a year-long sabbatical she’s taking while collaborating at a local university. A shrink and a professor, all in one. When Higgins heard down the grapevine that she was going to be in the area for the year, he reached out to her and got her registered in the Santa Clara County foster system. Fast-tracked it through bureaucracy, even. Higgins insists that this woman, who he probably hasn’t seen in person in at least a decade, can be trusted.

Well, every foster household is supposed to be trustworthy or kids wouldn’t be sent there in the first place. That doesn’t mean any of them are.

Dr. Betsy Dobson, PhD and PsychD. She smiles at him as she welcomes him into the house she’s renting for the year. Andrew isn’t charmed by it—smiles were easy to fall for and even easier to fake.

She’s an older lady, with dark skin and white hair. The house is decorated simply and neatly, with not a single object out of place. She shows him his room, which is clearly a spare intended for guests, not children. She tells him they can’t paint the room since that’s forbidden in her lease, but that she can help him put up posters.

Andrew isn’t sure why he’s here. The Johnsons were no delight, nor were the other children in their care, but they were routine. A typical mediocre foster care situation.

Why Higgins insisted he be put with this Betsy woman, Andrew has no clue.

What Andrew does know is that adults can’t be trusted. He doesn’t know if Betsy is the negligent type or the screaming type or violent type, not yet, but he knows she’ll be some type. Cass was the too-nice-to-be-real type.

That’s what he tells himself, as he accepts the offer for hot chocolate right before bedtime. 

“Hot chocolate in the summer?” He wonders if it’s a trick question.

“It’s never too hot for hot chocolate.”She bustles around the stovetop, preparing it from scratch. Andrew has only ever had the Swiss Miss packets and is reluctantly intrigued.

He tells himself, as he sips the chocolatey deliciousness, that he’s only interacting with her to get a better grip on what type of foster parent she will be. He won’t be bribed with something as simple as a sweet drink, he tells himself, even as he bites into the fluffy marshmallow the hot cocoa is topped with.

She’s probably trying to analyze him like he’s a patient or a student or something. Well, Andrew’s not her anything and doesn’t intend to be.

He goes back to his room and stays up late, staring at the ceiling’s popcorn texture, barely visible in the dark. The bed doesn’t sag in the middle and the sheets are softer than he’s used to. He listens to the background noise of the A/C humming, the occasional car driving down the street and an analog clock ticking from the living room, breathes in the scent of fabric freshener and lemon cleaning product until he passes out from exhaustion.

The next morning, he wakes up to the sun shining through his curtains, already high in the sky. It’s late and he’s surprised he hasn’t been woken up, been accused of being a lazy boy.

Betsy is typing away at her laptop in the kitchen but focuses on him when he enters her sight. “Did you rest okay? I always have difficulty sleeping in a new location.”

Andrew stares at her, unsure of how to respond. He’s still tired, having been awake for most of the night, but at least he didn’t have nightmares last night.

She carries on, seemingly uncaring of his silence. “I had eggs and toast for breakfast. I can make you more, if you’d like. There’s also Pop-tarts, strawberry and s’mores flavors.” She starts to get up.

Both of those options are better than Andrew’s last few weeks of plain toast or plain Cheerio’s.

“Pop-tarts. I can make them myself.” Andrew has no interest in being labeled _too much work_ so early on, and it isn’t hard to put pastries in a toaster.

“Oh, are you sure?” Betsy places two different boxes of Pop-tarts on the counter but sits back down by her laptop. “You can use the plates in the second cabinet on your right.”

There are small snack plates, all the same light blue, stacked upon medium plates, with those stacked upon large dinner plates. Andrew estimates the small plate should be good enough.

As he waits for his s’mores Pop-tarts to toast, Betsy continues trying to engage him in conversation.

“There’s milk, orange juice, and sweet tea in the fridge. Or you can have water from the sink filter. I’m quite partial to milk with breakfast, myself. I was born in Wisconsin, land of dairy, and grew up drinking it for every meal. My family moved out here when I was still pretty young but I continued the habit. I am a fan of all forms of dairy.”

“I like milk.” Andrew isn’t sure what else to say as he pours himself a glass.

The inside of the fridge in neatly arranged, just like the rest of the house is. Each drawer contains distinct types of food, with dairy in one, produce in another, and meat in the one next to that. The beverages are neatly lined up on a shelf and condiments along the fridge door.

It hits Andrew suddenly, how orderly the house is. The glimpse of the pantry where Betsy pulled the Pop-tart boxes out of revealed rows of perfectly straight boxes and cans. In the living room, there are television and DVD player remotes arranged in specific alignment on the coffee table. A series of glass decorations lay evenly spaced along the fireplace mantle.

Who is this woman, to take him in? She’s not part of some stingy couple trying to funnel away money from the government, not living in this nice house, in a good neighborhood. The savior types normally have walls plastered with Jesus on the cross and bible quotes and paintings of the Virgin Mary; there’s a bible on the bookshelf in the living room but nothing to indicate religious zealotry. He doesn’t know her exact age, but she does have white hair, and the women who foster-adopt because they cannot have children of their own are normally not as old as he thinks she is.

Regardless, there’s no reason for Andrew to be here. Everything in the house seems to have a place where it belongs, a neat little spot to reside. The only thing out of place is Andrew.

He doesn’t belong here.

Betsy Dobson is going to realize that eventually, send Andrew away and get back to her tidy life. He might as well help her realize that sooner.

Andrew leaves crumbs on the kitchen table as he eats, moves the remotes out of place as he watches TV while Betsy works, shifts curtains about and moves all the little glass figures all an inch to the right.

He leaves his bed unmade in the mornings and doesn’t return things to where he finds them.

He reads books from her bookshelves and from the library and leaves them strewn about.

Each day the house is reset to how it is before his disruptions—Betsy surely notices every action he takes, but says nothing about it.

When they go to the grocery store together, he picks things up from the shelves and places them slightly ajar, testing to see if she cares about neatness outside the home. She glances at him, can see him watching her, but still stays silent.

As they go through the frozen aisle, she pauses in front of the ice cream. “Look, it’s on sale, two for five dollars. How about you choose a flavor and I choose a flavor?”

Andrew stops too, considering the offer. Cass was the only other foster parent who had let him choose flavors but only ever bought the big tubs of store-brand ice cream with simple flavors like chocolate and vanilla. Betsy is pointing to Ben and Jerry’s, which always costs more and is in smaller containers. It’s expensive, so it must be even better. But Andrew has never had it, and there are so many flavors with complicated names.

He nods and looks over all the different options through the glass door. _Chunky Monkey, Chubby Hubby, Everything But The…, Coffee Coffee BuzzBuzzBuzz, Truffle Kerfuffle. _He wasn’t sure what these flavors were, could only tell a little bit from the picture on the label what the taste might be.There were normal-sounding flavors too, like vanilla caramel fudge and chocolate fudge brownie.

Betsy checks that he’s ready and opens the door. She pulls out Cherry Garcia and Andrew snags Milk and Cookies before she can change her mind.

Back at the house, she tries again to draw him into conversation. She does it every so often, and sometimes Andrew answers. There’s kindness in her voice and she never pushes.

She never touches him.

Sometimes, Andrew misses the warmth of Cass’s hugs, the way she’d wrap him up in her arms, how her hair would fall across his shoulders. Sometimes he thinks he has too hasty, too jumpy, like a nervous rabbit. Maybe he was afraid of permanence, of how she started bringing up adoption as an option.

But sometimes those hugs were cloying and claustrophobic. And he keeps little Marcy in his mind, imagines how her gap-toothed smile ended up plastered against a car by her own choice. Shivers under the phantom weight of Drake’s hand on his waist and breath on his neck, that draw up nightmares Andrew can never forget, built on memories that twist into horrors waking him up drenched in sweat.

He’s better off with this Betsy, until she tires of him anyway.

Betsy talks to him about the weather in South Carolina as she places the groceries into the fridge and pantry, every item slotting neatly into place. “It’s just as hot, but much more humid. I hated going outside during the daytime. Spend a few minutes outdoors and you’d be sticky with sweat for the rest of the day. It’s nice to be back in California for this summer, especially with the heat waves happening out East.”

Andrew has nothing to contribute. He’s been bounced all around the South Bay but has never left it, never left California.

“What do you say to some ice cream before dinner?” Betsy grins at him like they’re conspirators in a spy movie. “I think it’s early enough that our appetites won’t be ruined.”

Andrew really wants to try his Milk and Cookies flavor and can’t quite contain the excitement on his face as he nods and says, “Okay.”

Betsy gets out the small bowls and serves out a single large scoop for him, and one scoop of her cherry flavored ice cream for herself.

Andrew digs in as soon as he has both a bowl and a spoon in hand. It’s delicious, a sweet cream flavor with cookies bits that he can crunch down on. He’s so focused on eating that he forgets Betsy is there for a moment.

When he looks up at her, he sees her watching him as she eats her own scoop.

“I know you don’t trust me. That’s okay, we’ve only known each other for a short amount of time. I don’t work with foster children professionally; my expertise is focused on higher education—college students.”

Andrew stills his spoon, not sure of where she’s going with this.

“But some of my students were foster children themselves, so I know a little bit. And trauma responses aren’t as different between adults and children as you might think. You don’t have to tell me what happened, though I hope that one day you’ll trust me enough to.”

Betsy smiles at him, and Andrew wants to believe it’s genuine, believe she cares about him. It too hard to, when every person he’s ever let in has disappointed him. He wants to believe, but he can’t.

“You can keep moving things out of place. I know you’re doing it to annoy me, and I’ll keep moving them back, but I’m not going to send you away for it. You can go ahead and create messes, break things, act out, but I’ve made a commitment and I intend to keep it.”

Andrew frowns at her now and turns down to face his ice cream. She might say that now, but all people have their limits.

That night, his nightmare is worse than usual. He doesn’t feel any physical pain his dreams, but his emotions are always heightened. There’s a sickening sensation of _dirtybadwrong_, groping hands on his body, fear flooding his system as he’s held down in darkness.

There’s a grip on his shoulder that jolts him awake and his lashes out upwards, arms flailing as his legs tangle in the sheets.

His arm smacks something solid as he screams. The brightness of the room is blinding for a moment as he adjusts to waking up. He curls up against the headboard and draws the covers up, trying to suppress the violent tremors wracking his body.

When he looks over, Betsy is standing at the bedside, hand still stretched out towards him. His lamp is on, shining up at the red mark growing on her shocked face. The moment he realizes what he’s done, he flinches away again, trying to make himself look smaller.

This is the line and he’s crossed it. She’ll send him away now for sure, pack his bag up in the morning and say goodbye.

He waits.

Is she the screaming type or the violent type? Will she yell about how he’s an ungrateful waste of space? Grab him by the wrist and turn him over for punishment?

Andrew stares at her, eye wide, waiting for a reaction.

“I think some hot chocolate would be good just about now, don’t you?” Betsy asks, slowly, measuring out each word.

What does hot chocolate have to do with anything?

Andrew continues staring as his shivers under the covers and tries to get ahold of his rapid heartbeat.

Betsy nods, rather baffling in her confidence. “I’ll be back soon.”

He’s wordless as she leaves. He can hear is the tick of the gas stove turning on, the sounds Betsy bustling about in the kitchen.

His breathing is a little calmer, his hands a little less shaky, when she returns with two large mugs of hot chocolate, topped with marshmallows and whipped cream. She hands him one of the mugs, then goes over to the study desk on the other side of the room and pulls the chair there towards the bed, close but not touching it.

She sips her hot chocolate and waits for Andrew to do something, say something.

It doesn’t make any sense.

She’s supposed to use stern words and tell him how unacceptable his behavior is, or bracket him on his shoulders and shake him, not hand him a mug of hot chocolate.

She’s not supposed to be nice, be patient, be understanding. She’s not supposed to be another chance after he’s run out of second chances. She’s not supposed to care.

Something inside Andrew breaks and he starts babbling as tears well up in his eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—” His breath hitches and he gasps for air.

Andrew is no crybaby, but now that he’s started, he can’t seem to stop.

“I, I—” He doesn’t know what to say and takes a big gulp of the hot chocolate sloshing around unsteadily in his hands. It settles him a little, the rich cream and chocolate leaving a trail of warmth through his body as he drinks. He grips the mug tighter, trying to reign in the emotions spilling outward.

“No, it’s my fault. I should have known better than to wake you up like that, especially from a nightmare. I’m sorry, I won’t do it again.”

“You’re…” Andrew stutters, staring at her in disbelief. An adult has never apologized to him before or admitted that they were wrong. Betsy keeps surprising him, over and over.

“Do you want to talk about it? Sometimes, I find that talking about something helps me process it.”

Wordlessly, Andrew shakes his head and sniffs. He has no desire to put words to his nightmare. All he wants to do now is drink the hot chocolate and forget that this ever happened, not that his mind will let him.

“Can I hold your hand, Andrew?” Betsy holds out her own, waiting for an answer. Normally, Andrew wouldn’t think that he has a choice. Adults were always pushy. But he’s starting to believe that Betsy really will meet him where he’s at, and that’s what makes him agree.

Andrew places his hand into hers, lets her warm fingers wrap around it. Her skin is soft.

“I know that you’ve been hurt before. I have some thoughts about it, but I know you’re not ready. I’m going to make you a promise, okay?” She rubs her thumb against the back of his hand. It’s tenderness without expectation.

“I’m never going to hit you or yell at you. I won’t touch you without permission. If you say “no,” it means no, for these kinds of things. You set the boundaries, and I will respect that.”

He shuts his eyes and squeezes his hand and holds his breath.

Belief only ever ends in disappointment. This entire time, he was waiting for Betsy to show her true colors. It’s starting to dawn on him that maybe she’s been honest this whole time.

He exhales and looks at her. “O-kay.” His voice is ragged from crying.

She smiles at him and he finally thinks it might be real.

“Can I give you a hug?”

Andrew freezes for a moment, wondering if it’s a trick. He shakes his head and draws his hand back, clutching the other side of his mug.

“Okay. Is there anything you need from me before I go back to bed?”

He shakes his head again.

She nods in acknowledgment as she rises up and puts the chair back. “You can put your mug on the nightstand when you’re done and we’ll clean it up tomorrow. Goodnight Andrew, I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight, Bee.”

If she’s startled by the sudden nickname, she doesn’t show it and just smiles at him as she closes the door behind herself.

Andrew stares at shadows cast by his lamp and chugs down the cooling hot chocolate. There’s a glass of water on his nightstand and he chugs that too.

Then the exhaustion hits him, and he settles into bed, light still on. He wasn’t expecting anything good from Bee when he arrived at her house, didn’t think she could be anything to him.

But maybe this place can be more than Andrew standing misfit in a house full of orderly objects slotted into place.

Maybe this can be a home where Andrew belongs. 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know when I'll have time, but I do have a sequel planned where they make it through the summer and school-year with a few bumps and a lot of love. Just as Andrew is resigning himself to how she'll leave him once the year is up, Betsy produces some adoption papers and whisks him away to Palmetto. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are both much appreciated! Thanks for reading and come say hi on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/FaiaSakura) or [Tumblr](http://faiasakura.tumblr.com) ❤


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